Ronan O’Malley, 53, custom fishing rod builder and self-proclaimed professional hermit, only set foot at the Buncombe County Fair because his 16-year-old niece had begged him to come see her prize show sheep. He owed her, after she’d spent three weekends sorting and cataloging his thread spools and graphite blanks when his arthritis flared up last spring, so he’d dragged himself out of his converted garage workshop, tossed on a faded flannel and work boots, and driven the 20 minutes into town.
He’d already sat through 20 minutes of sheep judging, had eaten one too many fried cheese curds, and was leaning against a weathered split-rail fence by the food tent waiting for his niece to bring him the blue ribbon she’d sworn she’d win, when the brim of a woven sunhat brushed his left shoulder. He turned to apologize, and the words died in his throat. It was Lila Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger sister, the woman he’d not spoken to since the day his ex had loaded her moving truck and driven off for Denver 8 years prior.
She was 42 now, her dark hair streaked with a single silver strand above her left ear that he’d never seen before, her linen sundress dotted with faint paint splatters at the hem, her arms tanned from hours working in her backyard pottery studio. She grinned when she saw him, no awkward hesitation, no judgment, and leaned in to hug him, her elbow bumping his ribs when she moved, the smell of lavender shampoo and sun-warmed cotton wrapping around him. He froze for half a second, his hands hovering awkwardly over her back, before he patted her once, his palm brushing the bare skin of her shoulder, and stepped back.
The first thought that hit him was guilt, sharp and hot. This was his ex’s sister. He’d spent 12 years married to her older sibling, had watched Lila graduate high school, had helped her fix her first car when the engine died senior year. He had no business noticing how her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, how the dress clung just a little to her hips when she shifted her weight, how her fingers were calloused at the tips from throwing clay, same as his were from sanding rod blanks. He told himself he was being a creep, that he should make an excuse and leave, that this was the kind of mess he’d spent almost a decade avoiding by hiding out in his workshop.
She didn’t let him leave. She leaned against the fence next to him, their shoulders inches apart, and told him she’d moved back to town six months prior to teach elementary school art, had split with her long-term boyfriend three years back, had been meaning to stop by his shop but had been nervous he’d turn her away. He grunted something about how he didn’t turn away paying customers, and she laughed, a bright, loud sound that cut through the distant roar of the Ferris wheel and the moo of cows from the livestock barn. When he held out a napkin to wipe the powdered sugar from her chin—she’d been eating a fried Oreo, crumbs dusted across her upper lip—her fingers brushed his, warm and deliberate, and he felt a jolt go up his arm that had nothing to do with his arthritis.
She asked him if he wanted to skip the rest of the fair, walk down to the creek that ran behind the fairgrounds, said it was quiet there, no screaming kids or greasy food smells. He hesitated, his mind racing. This was wrong. People knew who they were, knew they were connected by his old marriage. Someone would see them, would talk, would tell his ex, and he didn’t want the drama. But then she tugged his wrist lightly, her fingers wrapping around the faded fabric of his flannel sleeve, and he found himself saying yes before he could overthink it.
They walked the half mile down the dirt path to the creek, their boots crunching over fallen oak leaves, no awkward silence between them. She talked about her art students, about the mug she’d thrown that had collapsed in the kiln the week prior, about how she’d always thought his ex had been an idiot to leave him, that she’d never understood how someone could walk away from a man who fixed your car for free and brought you coffee in bed every morning. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just kicked a rock down the path, the guilt in his chest softening into something lighter, something he hadn’t felt in years: hope.
They sat on a flat, sun-warmed granite rock at the edge of the creek, and she kicked her sandals off, dipping her feet in the cold, shallow water. He noticed the tiny, faint scar on her left ankle, the one she’d gotten when they’d gone camping with his ex when she was 22, slipped on a wet rock and cut herself open on a shard of glass. He’d wrapped it up with a bandana from his pocket, had driven her to the ER to get stitches. She tilted her head up at him, her eyes bright, and said she’d never forgotten that day, that no one had ever been that gentle with her before.
He passed her the cold lemonade he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier, and their fingers brushed again, this time neither of them pulled away. When she leaned in, her hand coming up to rest on his knee, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t care about the gossip, didn’t care about the old guilt, didn’t care about the 8 years he’d spent hiding from the world. When she tilted her head up to kiss him, the distant roar of the fair crowd fades to nothing but the sound of water over smooth stones and the quiet thud of his heart, finally unclenched after eight years of being held tight.
